May 4, 2012 at 1:19 am (Poetry) (, , , )

For some            

the epitome of winter,

With its bitter morning frost

and crisp grass under foot,

is January.


But I say

when the winter wind seems eternal,

across the wide expanse of a frozen cheek,

 like a pond on which we might skate,

it is February.


Sullied by ploughs, trampled by feet

half-melted  and shoveled aside,

Afraid that winter will not end,

 We look out at our windows not at snow,

 but at the remains of snow.  


What would it take to remember

 those first few               




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